


Raw

by beerin



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set after Monza 2020, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, breaking covid bubbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27935885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beerin/pseuds/beerin
Summary: When everyone at work seems to hate you and yet your career is hanging by a thread. When your newlywed wife cheats on you and you still have to see her affair every other day. When you can't stand people and somehow you still spend your life surrounded by excited crowds and cameras. When a feisty stranger lives rent-free in your head and you have no clue what to feel half of the time. Then you have arrived in the life of Kevin Magnussen.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, Kevin Magnussen/Original Female Character(s), Michael Italiano/Nico Hulkenberg
Kudos: 9





	1. Bare-knuckled

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> This work is purely fictional. Even though the described persons do exist in reality, their character traits and actions described here probably do not. I neither know the persons personally, nor do I earn any money with them. If you know any of the persons I would advise you to not read this story. 
> 
> A/N:  
> Sooo that is my first story here and I am a bit excited. Began writing this story after Monza but got stuck and now started to translate and edit it (as you can guess, English is not my native language and mistakes are very possible).

##### 06\. September 2020, Monza, Italy

The only sounds breaking the silence were the accurate punches landing on the black leather. The creaking of the iron punching bag's hanging. The heavy panting of the blond man whose face was due to the effort of his movements flashing red and glistening with single drops of sweat. It was a crappy day. It was a crappy week. Hell, he knew, that it was a crappy season.  
Engine failure. In the most chaotic race for ages. On the traditional and well beloved track in Monza. Where even a Haas driver like him would have had a chance to be among the front or at least midfield runners. Like Gasly. Stroll. Norris. Young idiots with only slightly better cars that still had ended up in front. On the podium even.  
With a little more force, he thundered his bare-knuckled fist into the sandbag that groaned under his touch. He knew his mistakes. He knew he could be cocky. Often driving to aggressively, not having his emotions under control, not being able to subordinate. That he wanted to control every situation. That he was despised and feared by the other drivers and the press.  
But no matter how hard he tried, he could not be a Daniel Ricciardo. Always joking, always smiling, always flirting – always being so fucking happy. Hell, he could not even be a Kimi Räikkönen. With him there was no Scandinavian restraint. His emotions boiled high like an Icelandic volcano. Whether on the race track or in his marriage.  
His ankles tore under the pressure. He had refused to put on gloves, had refused to at least bandage his hands. Tomorrow he would regret it, today the pain made him feel alive. 

Groaning, the sandbag swung out when he finally let go of it and reached for his water bottle. It was Sunday evening and everyone else was celebrating this unusual race even though the Covid-restrictions made it slightly harder. The joy that for once Hamilton was not on the podium seemed to paralyze all the rules of bubbles and the fear of the pandemic. Magnussen had almost had the impression that Hamilton himself was not unhappy to have at least for once this season a bit of excitement in motorsport. But it was hard to tell. Ever since Lewis had found his inner peace he was annoyingly chill and much too nice to everybody. His smile was without any malice and more than often Magnussen had seen the fondness in his eyes when he talked about the rookies and their future in Formula One.  
To escape the hustle and bustle, he had slipped out of the Haas Motorhome and fled to the team-neutral sport studio on track. Hardly ever used – most drivers preferred private training with their physiotherapists and personal trainers, but still always moved around half of the world, it only smelled of his own sweat and the omnipresent disinfectant. A smell that seemed to linger in every little thing this year. He couldn't remember how his hands used to smell like.  
He himself loved to train alone – without any limitations and Thomas lurking over his shoulder. Regularly, he was rebuked when he came back with sore muscles and bruises, but he liked extremes. Even apart from the race track. That's why he now smirked when his gaze wandered across the deserted sport studio. The young guy at the registration desk had been trying to avoid him for the last hours. A friendly admonition that he had to wear a mask if he left his place, had been matched by Magnussen's unwilling growl and an angry look. After that he had not been interrupted in training. He enjoyed the silence. No photographers, no journalists, no small talk and none of the usual performing. Just being alone with himself and his body to get rid of all the pent-up frustration. Getting ready for the next round was interrupted when he heard the unmistakable sound of heels on the hard floor. 

An unusual sound for the sports rooms. So unusual that he looked up, following the sound. Energetically a young woman stepped through the glass doors and stopped in front of the young guy at the registration desk. And what a woman. She was small. Barely reaching over the high counter and yet she radiated such a presence that he was certain that her physical size was never an obstacle for her. Black, long curls framed a heart-shaped face with big brown eyes, an adorable little nose and full lips. Her generous curves were poured into a yellow-doted summer dress and her slender calves were tucked into brown ankle boots. Even with the height gain through her heels she was tiny and looked like a foreign object in the sterile gym. No, actually she looked even out of place in the still male-dominate Formula 1-World. 

The young man at the registration desk was obviously raptured. For him she was a welcome change from the grim Dane, who had been ruthlessly pounding a sandbag for hours. Her bell-like laughter accompanied Magnussen as he stomped wary to the couple. In his opinion, the guy leaned his upper body far too forward, looked just a bit too eager at her neckline, pointed obscenely at her red lips - harassed her. Yes - he harassed her and Magnussen had to save her. Purely for her own good. She had no business being here. He would take her to a safer place. Oh, she would be grateful to him. Pictures of her closing her full red lips around his hard cock flashed in his mind's eye and just a split second later guilt ran over him when he thought of Louise. But alas he was just a man. And he liked grateful women. The knight in a shining amour was a role he definitely liked.

The closer he came, the more he noticed that only the young man could use a rescuer in need. Since he seemed to have fallen head over heels for the beautiful stranger. Smiling enraptured while she seemed to rush to find a mask. At least she dug in her bag, head slightly borrowed. The constant masking got on Magnussen's nerves. If the most dangerous sport in the world did not kill him, why should a cold do the trick? "What's going on here?" growled Magnussen more unfriendly than he actually wanted to and the young man flinched in shock. " _Signor_ Magnussen, uh, the _Signora_ wants to learn to box, and uh, immediately, and uh, no one is here, uh, because of that...", when the Dane looked at him sternly, he fell silent in fright. "You have no business here," growled Magnussen in the direction of the young woman, "I'll take you back."  
His gaze wandered slowly from her narrow feet, over her long legs, the slightly broad hips, the luxuriant décolleté and full lips to angry, flashing brown eyes. "I have a right to train like everyone else here. I belong to the team. Leonardo already checked my ID," she waved indefinitely in the direction of the employee, who looked as if he would like to sink into the ground. Her voice was velvety and full. The English broken through with a hint of an accent that Magnussen couldn't pin down. He thought she looked Italian. Would make sense too, they were in Italy and he had certainly never seen her before. Maybe one of the thousand employees at Ferrari? Nobody could keep up with the sheer endless stream of beautiful women the red team seemed to have in reserve. He noticed that he seemed to have a weakness for Italians.

His hard, ice-blue eyes met her angry, sparkling brown.  
"You want to box? Why? Wouldn't you rather shop for shoes or something? Update Instagram? Bake vegan cakes? Do Pilates?" He knew he was going too far. Insulting a complete stranger for no certain reason. But once again, he couldn't stop. The devil sat on his shoulder and his blood boiled. What was this woman doing here, though. It didn't make any sense. Far too much make-up, far too feminine, far too small and delicate. Far too attractive and dangerous for him. Boxing? Her beautiful face would not survive it. She would cry in pain, he hated tears. Tears made him helpless, a fact that suffocated any spark of an argument with Louise. Why had he interfered anyway? He had only wanted to have his peace and quiet and it was none of his business. She should box if she wanted. Or paint her nails. As long as she left him alone he shouldn't care what the hell she was doing. And yet...

A firm hit against his chest made him gasp surprised and stagger back a step. "I will box. But that is none of Kevin Magnussen's business." She had a firm hand and she knew who he was. Well, it wasn't that hard to be fair, since he was one of the best drivers of the world, but still... he liked it. Abruptly his interest returned. Kevin Magnussen, sounded fantastic from her lips. He usually hated his first name, but if she would scream it - he maybe could get used to that. Inside he winced. He loved Louise. Loved her silky cream white skin, her slim figure, the long, blond hair, the delicate hands adorned with the sparkling wedding ring. She was his wife damn it. He should not desire anyone else. His thoughts were toxic and wrong and he pushed them out of his head. He could not wait to kiss Louise lips and hold her in his arms again. But she had told him, that she would spent today with a friend of hers, always to afraid to watch the race. Slightly disgusted by the sheer adrenaline and danger which came with his passion. And so he was horny and alone. Like most of the time. 

Slightly squeaky, an anxious voice behind the counter broke through their exchange of verbal blows. " _Signora_ , um, tonight - only _Signor_ Magnussen is here. Everybody else is celebrating or already went home. We usually don't have a lot of visitors here anyway and due to Covid, we have even less personal and I am only responsible for the information desk." His face reddened due to his words but he continued: "So if you really want to box right away... I think you should ask Mr. Magnussen if he has some time."  
The Dane felt the evil grin that ran across his face. "Yes, _Signora_. At the moment I am the only one at your disposal. Shall I teach you how to box? Or would you rather go home and watch some chick-flick eating ice cream?" The corners of her mouth curled disdainful before she stormed wordlessly past him into the changing room. The devil knew what had got into him. He had worked very hard on composing his cool self in the last years, worked on staying calm and diplomatic but somehow this evening he threw all of it out of the window.  
Whatever, it wasn't a big deal. He would teach her how to box.  
Maybe he could teach her some other things as well. Pictures pushed themselves once again in front of his inner eye. Pictures in which she squirmed naked under him, begging him to take her... how she embraced his cock with her full lips, blinking innocently up to him... screaming his name with her eyes fluttering shut. He felt himself getting hard.  
Annoyed, he tugged at his sweatpants so that they fell looser at the crotch and began to bandage his hands. She would not last long. A few exercises, some help from him, a careful embrace of her back to correct her arm position, like randomly grazing her with his erection - she would beg him to fuck her in the changing room. He smiled. Women were so simple. A second later the corners of his mouth sank and he sighed. If he had no conscience, things would be easier. But he believed in marriage. In monogamy. In moral values. His wild times were over. He was getting old.

Dainty feet in black sports shoes pushed themselves into his field of vision and he let his gaze wander up. Fiery his eyes roamed over her body. A tight-fitting leggings revealed her curves and a tiny sports bra seemed unable to hold her full breasts. These were not sports clothes. This was pure torture.  
A hoarse clearing of his throat escaped him. "You should remove your makeup. Have you removed all jewellery?" "No. And yes." Monosyllabic answers from full lips.  
He looked at her now artfully braided hair and the red painted mouth. A walking sin. He gave up in his half-hearted attempts trying to stop her. She would soon enough know what she was getting herself into. Probably she just wanted to annoy him a bit to get into his bed and the whole boxing-thing was nothing than a rather clever facade. Maybe she even was a fan. Or one of the staff members who slept through the grid. Or she wanted to take revenge on a former lover. He tried to catch a glimpse at her fingers, looking for an imprint of a wedding ring.  
Her hands were already bandaged. Perfectly bandaged. Another detail he couldn't place. "What's your name?" She laughed disparagingly. "Magnussen, it's just an evening of sparring, we don't have to learn our favourite colours first." He felt the old familiar anger boil up and he became crude. He would wipe that grin off her face. Stuff her mouth with his cock. Oh, yeah. With a bit of difficulty he rose and went into the basic position, when a first swing came towards him. Alert he blocked.

"I thought you wanted to learn boxing first?" Innocently, she blinked at him from below with thick eyelashes, "What makes you think so? I said that I want to box – nothing about learning it." she seemed to consider his offer nevertheless. "But you know what, if I have to learn something, I would rather learn to kickbox."  
He groaned as her foot unexpectedly hit his side. It was a light blow without any real power behind it. Power which would be crucial to make punches or kicks successful - and yet he could feel his pale skin already bruising. Something went very wrong here. He blocked another kick. One, two, three punches. Another combination. Their cover was good, their technique solid, their speed not to be underestimated - but there was not enough power behind it all. His luck at the moment, because obviously she was after him. Magnussen knew that he could overpower her at any time before she would become dangerous to him. Even though he wasn't a giant with his 1.74m, she hardly protruded over his chest. His body consisted of seventy kilos of the purest muscle mass, while her body seemed to consist mainly of delicate and soft curves. "When you hit, you have to put more emphasis into the punches." For the first time he swung a blow, effortlessly breaking through her guard and stopping a few millimetres in front of her nose. "Without the right strength behind it, you won't get far." Surprised, she nodded briefly before she attacked him with new blows. Silent, but determined. He seemed to be her punching bag and to his own amazement he didn't mind at all.

Magnussen could not tell how much time had passed when a deep voice cut the concentration of the sparring pair. " _Kleine_ , everyone is looking for you. Why aren't you at the party?" What followed didn't please him at all. An enchanted "Nico" escaped her full lips and she ran towards the German giant. The German giant, who actually had no seat this season and shouldn't even be here to begin with. Even less with Covid. There was a freaking pandemic and nobody seemed to care that the German could easily contaminate the whole paddock and was even worse throwing parties. Hülkenberg pulled her into his arms (fuck Covid apparently), whirled her around and buried his masked face in her slightly damp hair, laughing. "Oh Nico, are you here to pick me up? Did I miss much? I just needed a few moments of silence. But it is just lovely to see you! I am so happy that you are here." Forgotten was her taciturnity, forgotten the grim but concentrated look. Like a sunflower she opened up to his colleague, basking in his fond attention. Hülkenberg only nodded and let her gently down to the ground. "Do you have a minute? I would love to take a quick shower. I mean you know Magnussen, right?" A frown was shot in his direction. The Dane felt like he was in a bad movie. Didn't he sacrifice his precious free time to help an ill-tempered witch beating him up and still he was the bad guy? From whom the pretty boy had to save her? Actually, he got along quite well with Hülkenberg by now, but right now he would have liked nothing better than to bury his clenched fist thundering into his face. A reminiscence of old times.

"Kev," the German raised his hand greeting, smile hidden behind the thin layer of fabric. "What have you done? She seemed like she wanted to scratch your eyes out." Raising his hands defensively Magnussen shot him a bitter look. "Nothing. Really. Nothing at all," he sighed in frustration. "I don't even know her name." The answer was just a soft laugh. "Seriously man though, what's her name? You obviously know her better... Are you guys together? Or what are you actually doing here? Not to be rude, but is Perez sick again?" His question sounded nonchalant in his own ears. Not too curious, not too anxious, as if he didn't care who had been boxing by his side for three hours. But when Nico's eyebrows narrowed, the Dane knew he wouldn't like the answer. "We are not together, but Kev... Stay away from her. She's special and there are plenty on the paddock who won't hesitate to defend her honour. Stay as far away from her as you can. It wouldn't do both of you any good."  


The threat was still there when the young woman came back a short time later, freshly showered. She had changed and was wearing her dress again, with Hülkenberg blatantly eyeing her. She smiled coquettishly, "Do you like it?" Magnussen felt the sideways glance from the other man standing besides him and cursed his height. How he would have liked to resemble a muscular Viking now, instead of being overtowered by the German. "You know, that I always like you, _Kleine_. But we should get going now, the others are already awaiting you and I can't console the little one again – it always feels like kicking a puppy." She laughed, her eyes twinkling and hid her smile behind a piece of fabric. "I'm ready. But how did you know where I was?" A small wave to Magnussen was the only sign of recognition he got from the chatting pair, slowly disappearing into the darkening sky.  


He growled. He was so angry. Not a word of gratitude, not a proper farewell, instead a threat from his former rival. For having sacrificed his limited free time getting beaten up. By a sinful woman whose name he still did not know.  
Only when the two had disappeared from his view did he notice that Nico had not said a single word what he was doing in Italy.  
The day was fucked up.  
He gave the sandbag a hard punch. Satisfaction building up as he quickly returned to a hard, aggressive pace and maltreated the leather.  
He didn't give a damn about that woman.  
He didn't give a damn about Hülkenberg.  
He didn't give a damn about the other drivers.  
He didn't give a damn about Haas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly translated:  
>  _Signor_ (ital.): Mr.  
>  _Signora_ (ital.): Miss/Mrs.  
>  _Kleine_ (germ.): Little One (petname)
> 
> \------------------------------  
> Tbh I'm still absolutley gutted after yesterday so I don't really know what else to say :)  
> I would love to hear your thoughts though!  
> Update will follow next Monday.
> 
> If you want to yell at me on tumblr:  
> [@beerin](http://beerin.tumblr.com)


	2. Crumbling

##### 07\. September 2020, Monza, Italy

He didn't know when he finally staggered into bed. Exhausted and confused - with aching arms and bloody hands. Yesterday's encounter seemed like a distant dream in the pale morning light. Magnussen was sure he had imagined the intensity of the evening hours. For what had it actually been? A joint training session with a silent woman, who seemed to be on friendly terms with an ex-colleague, after an exhausting and draining weekend. Technically just the right thing to get rid of his tension and to be honest, that was exactly what yesterday's sparring session had done in the end. This morning he felt great. Even though his body was still aching from yesterday's exertion, but he felt that today was going to be a good day. A productive day. A happy day.

His eyes fell on the empty side of the bed next to him and even though he should know better he searched for some traces that could indicate if someone had been there. But the bedding was untouched, the sheets, cold and stiff only smelled of laundry detergent. Louise had not come home. Again, she hadn't. He didn't know why she even wanted to accompany him to the races if she spent most of her time treating him with disregard. They had gotten married nearly a year ago. For him, it had been a marriage of love - full of hope and promises of a future together. For her, a simple Danish teacher, it seemed to be rather a stepping stone into the world of the rich and famous. Magnussen shunned the limelight, placing little value on celebrity encounters and glamourous Instagram profiles. He preferred to keep his private life to himself. His Instagram was filled with Formula 1, hers with private snapshots. Another point of contention. She was disappointed with his poor driving record, his contract with an C-Team, his constant traveling, not happy with the comparatively narrow salary compared to other drivers, who had the same job. She hated when his temper flared up, became silent in arguments and just left in the middle of a discussion, later pointing out how disappointed she was in him. She hated his beard and tattoos. She hated that he liked to have a drink when he had a day of. That he worked out all the time. She hated when he was boisterous, loud, obscene. She hated his insatiable sexual appetite. His wild past. His reputation as the bad boy of the circuit. When he tried to flirt with her in public, he was met with an embarrassed silence. She rarely allowed him any affection in public. Not that that changed much, when they were behind closed doors. He was a tactile guy, maybe not as much as Ricciardo, but he craved to have a physical connection to people who meant something to him. Not that there were much. Sometimes he was unsure if she might not be cheating. Too many nights he was alone in strange hotel beds. When he was honest to himself they did not share common interests. The marriage had become a farce.

The Dane sighed and buried his face in his big hands. Contrary to public opinion, he was not an ass in relationships. He was monogamous. Didn't think much of polygamy or polyamory. It was alright with him if some people craved for it and lived with it, but it wasn't for him. When he bonded, it was for love and love only. Love that for him was great enough to forgo sex with anyone else. Love that consumed him and his soul and left no room for another person. Love that lasted years and one grew old with. Love he had believed in when he had married Louise. A belief that had threatened to slip away from him over the last few months. For a few weeks now, he noticed that he was eyeing other women again - interested, lustful, greedy. The images in his head that were supposed to contain only Louise were slipping away. Just like yesterday.  
He felt himself getting hard. The morning erection stiffening. Slowly, absentmindedly, he began to palm his penis through his tight boxers. His finger lightly ghosting over the length as he reviewed last night. The sound of a key card being swept through the sensor of the hotel door made him stop. 

"Louise?", he jumped up and stumbled out of the bedroom. His wife looked at him with big eyes, caught. She was wearing yesterday's tight jeans, her hair was dishevelled and her lips were reddened, but stretched across her breasts was a Haas T-shirt with his name on it, and Magnussen decided not to get upset. She was, after all, still his wife dammit. He trusted her.  
Her voice sounded hoarse as she greeted him. Her gaze twitched guiltily to the floor when he asked where she'd been. "With friends." Briefly, he wondered what friends she owned in Monza. But it was Monday. The September sun was shining and they didn't have to leave for Florence until tomorrow. Nothing stood in the way to spend a comfortable day in the comfy hotel suite. A day without suspicion and quarrels, but instead a day between the soft quilts with steaming coffee cups and endless affections.  
He strolled to his wife and took her slim face tender between his broad hands, kissing her gently and tenderly. Tried to ignore the sharp taste of tobacco. Louise didn't actually smoke - hated tobacco since her father had died of lung cancer. Still. That September morning under the Italian sun, hope stirred in him again. They would work through their problems, maybe could do some couples therapy. They were married, and he wasn't about to give up. He wanted children, a family, a home. He would try to be more for them. His contract with Haas expired at the end of the season. Maybe this was fate's hint to retire? What was the fulfilment of a life's dream if you lost the love of your life for it?

Defensively, she broke the kiss and put her hands to his chest to push him away. "Kevin, I want to take a shower. Besides, you haven't even brushed your teeth yet." He sighed but wordlessly let go of her as she disappeared into the bathroom. The metal coffee pot felt comforting in his hands and he scooped the espresso by the spoonful into the screw-top pot. The coffee would get too strong and too bitter. Louise would hate it and complain why he hadn't just ordered room service, but every time he drank the much too bitter handmade coffee he felt some strange peace washing over him. He had to talk to her. They should finally sit down together and name their problems, start working on them. The bathroom door creaked open under his impatient hand and he hastily slipped his T-shirt over his head. Louise was in the shower and her slim figure stood out hazily through the warm steam. Wearing only boxers, he joined her in the shower, hugging her from behind and pressed his erection against her tight, little ass. They could talk later, he decided.  
"Kevin!" Her voice sounded annoyed and he pressed a kiss behind her ear, gently pushing her blonde hair aside and dabbing wet kisses on her slender neck as he began to rub his pelvis against her.  
"Kevin! I'm taking a shower. I have a headache, don't. Besides, you're wetting the whole bathroom." She turned around, breaking free from his embrace and he froze. An ice-cold shower could have had no other effect. Her body was littered with bite marks. Fingerprints that had dug into her flesh. Between her thighs were large hickies taunting him and he felt himself turning pale with rage. He felt sick. 

Wordlessly, he let go of her and left the bathroom, his body dripping wet. Waited for her to follow him. Denying her betrayal. Begging him to forgive her, but she did not come. He paced the now much to small suite. He felt as if he could not breathe. The coffee pot whistled and impatiently he reached for it. Burned his fingers on the hot metal and flung it onto the tiled floor. Impatiently grabbed her bag, which was still on the kitchen table, and hurled it after the pot. Regretting it as soon as he saw the coffee slowly seeping through the soft leather. He got on his knees, unzipping the bag. Told himself he only wanted to save the contents from the coffee, but immediately fished for her mobile phone. It flashed at him provocatively. Twelve messages from a number he didn't recognise. The screen was locked. Except for the proof of secrecy ridiculing him, he got no new information from it. Until the mobile vibrated in his hand as a new message arrived.  
_"Fucking you on the car was hot. I will do anything to you that Magnussen can't even dream of...."._ The rest of the message was cut off but it was enough to make Kevin rush to the sink and throw up. Not only was she cheating, but she was cheating with someone who knew him, even worse who worked with him. The taste in his mouth was bitter and metallic. Still it surprised him, when the running water washed blood down the drain. He hadn't noticed how he had buried his teeth in his now bloody lip.

Against his better judgement, his fingers crept back to the now ruined bag. Tipped the contents onto the tiles next to the spilled coffee. He saw the remains of the previous night. An unopened condom packet, a pair of used panties, an opened box of cigarettes. The key card to a hotel room. A hotel in Monza, just a few streets away from where they were staying. Magnussen was trembling. But he couldn't let it rest. He had to know. Manically, he slipped out of his still-wet boxers and into a pair of comfortable sweatpants. He grabbed the next T-shirt he could find, tucked his keycard into one of the pockets and hastily left the flat with the sign of her deceit burning hot against the skin of his closed fist. The bright sun blinded him, but promised nothing more than scorn. The elation he had felt just an hour ago had vanished. He began to run frantically as the first pedestrians eyed him curiously. Haas would not be happy for another headline. 

**Magnussen barefoot at Monza. Faster without a car?**

Panting, he trotted into the lobby of the posh hotel. Somehow the name had tingled a bell in the back of his head, but he didn't seem able to connect the loose strings. Instead he was looking jittery for the lift when a hand came down heavily on his shoulder. Turning around in panic, he looked into the worried eyes of his teammate. Grosjean was standing behind him. "Kev, what is it?" His French accent came through stronger than normal and Magnussen gasped, anxiously breathing in the air he hadn't realized to be holding. His fist opened and revealed the room card. "Louise is cheating on me. With someone who sleeps in this room." He knew he could rely on the Swiss man's discretion. They had grown together over the last few years into an unequal but strong team. Since he had fought over Romain's honour a few weeks ago, they were suddenly friends, as if the friction of the last years had never existed. The Dane knew that Romain stayed outside of the whole circus. Only wanted to drive. Missed his family sorely. Romain would not sell the information or spread any gossip across the paddock. Speaking the fact, however, made it suddenly real and he collapsed. His newlywed wife was cheating on him. His marriage had already failed at the beginning.  
" _Merde_.", Grosjean cursed. "Do you want to see who it is?" Magnussen shrugged his shoulders. "I mean I think so - but ultimately it doesn't change anything, does it? My marriage is over. I thought we could work it out, but..." The sentence trailed off. Determined, his teammate straightened and slung his arm comforting over Magnussen's shoulder. "I'm coming with you. No argument. Let's see which _fils de pute_ can't keep his filthy hands to himself."

Resolute he pushed Kevin's body, which had lost all of its tension toward the lift. It was Romain too who pounded vigorously on the door and gasped in surprise when he looked into the grinning face of the occupant who didn't bother to wear a mask. " _Toi? Je ne peux pas vous croire. Espèce de salaud!_ "  
"Bah, did you come to beg me to leave her alone? You know who begged yesterday too? Your wife." The insult was crude and below the belt, but it suited the young Frenchman who had so far only made enemies among the other drivers. Magnussen, however, felt nothing. The burning pain that had been eating through his body since the encounter in the bathroom - some dirty words couldn't make it any worse. He wasn't even angry. He just felt empty.  
Ocon grinned dirtily. "Oh she looked good with my cock in her mouth. Said she'd never seen one that big. I fucked her on your car, you know. Made sure she was so wet she must have left marks for you. Oh Magnussen," he clicked his tongue with pleasure, "I fucked all her holes. The tight little ass, her wet cunt, the greedy mouth. She screamed my name as she came again and again. Begging me to give it to her some more. I didn't know what a treasure you were hiding at home. So willing and obedient." Magnussen saw Grosjean's worried eyes on him as he opened his mouth but no words left his lips. He felt sick. Choking, he sank to the floor. But only bitter bile rose inside him. He just felt empty. Romain pulled him up, pale and trembling, he leaned against the Swiss, who wordlessly supported him while they staggered down the corridor. It was a pathetic exit. The door slammed too loud and Magnussen was glad he could only surmise Ocon's derisive laughter.

"You didn't hit him." They were the first words to leave Romain's lips since the nightmarish encounter. The Swiss was not the type for confrontation and yet he had accompanied him. They awkwardly stood in front of the lift. Unsure what the right next step would be. Magnussen slumped to the floor without a warning. He didn't know where to put his emotions and felt the tears welling up inside him. They spurted from his eyes, running in sticky trails down his cheeks. Hoarse sobs shook his upper body. He felt so helpless. There was nothing holding him together anymore. Something had broken inside of him. With calm, steady movements, Romain stroked his back. Hushing comforting, just as helpless as he was.  
A cheerful whistle broke through Magnussen's unbridled outburst and with difficulty he tried to clean his face with the back of his hand. It would be a feast for the press.

**Magnussen loses control. Career and marriage at an end?**

"What's going on here?" the broad Australian accent sounded worried. The cheerfulness that usually resonated evaporated. Magnussen felt Grosjean's questioning gaze on him and nodded, barely perceptible. He didn't really care. Let everyone know about it. Even if ten journalists stood beside the Renault driver. He didn't mind any more. Nothing bothered him any more.  
Self-effacing as he was, Grosjean muttered a neutral summary that still caused fresh tears to roll from his puffy, reddened eyes. "That bastard!", Ricciardo roared, getting loud. "Did you beat him up?" Silently, the Dane shook his head. "But you punched Sainz because he insulted Romain! You punched Hülkenberg. You almost punched Alonso. Didn't you even punch Romain once?"  
No answer. Ricciardo now sounded concerned. "Do you want to talk about it?" A barely recognisable shake of his head.  
"Do you want to talk to her about it?" Another shake of the Dane's head. "Do you want me to call Steiner?" A slow nod before Magnussen closed his eyes. His head felt like it was full of cotton wool. The quietly conducted conversation of the other two drivers became an indistinct murmur and he felt his limbs growing tired. He was so exhausted.

Steiner's rumbling voice brought him back to consciousness a few minutes later. "Kevin! What are you doing? Is everything alright?" The heavy accent usually made Magnussen grin, but today he barely noticed it. His own voice sounded unusually quiet and scratchy in his ears as he tried to form a meaningful reply. "Günther. I need a press conference. Better sooner than later."  
Three pairs of worried eyes looked at him in surprise. "Don't do anything you regret," Grosjean whispered, "Maybe you can still sort this out?". "It's over. I...", he stopped, "I.... can't. It's too much. Difficult... it has been for a long time. But this..." He saw Ricciardo's nod and was grateful that the usually cheerful Australian took his side without hesitation. His teammate still looked doubtful. Steiner looked stoic. Magnussen wondered what the others had told him. "Günther. I have to do it. I can't." "Tomorrow?" "Today!" "I'll see what I can do at such short notice." With the phone to his ear, the Tyrolese disappeared not without patting Magnussen comfortingly on the shoulder. 

The next time he saw his team principal was when he took a seat next to him. The room was filled with the few journalists, who had been allowed to enter the paddock, a big video screen with others waiting, while cameras were flashing at him and Magnussen briefly regretted that he had not waited until tomorrow. His eyes were bright red and puffy. Dark shadows accompanied them. His breath smelled of pungent grappa after a trip with Daniel to the hotel bar. At least he was wearing underwear and a jeans by now. It had also been Daniel who had gone back to the deserted flat and packed. Louise had already left. Her stuff too. As if she had never been there. Magnussen cleared his throat. His voice still sounded busy. "Thank you very much for coming on such short notice. I would like to announce the separation from Louise Gjørup. We have separated amicably. We both regret that the marriage was of such short duration. We ask that our privacy will be respected and hope for understanding that we need some time for ourselves at the moment until the divorce is final," his voice trembled over the last few words and he felt Steiner's hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "No questions." A firework of lightning sparkled before his eyes and hastily he left the room, ignoring the excited murmurs and the first questions. Steiner would handle it all. His mobile vibrated. Louise was calling. Not answering he muted his phone.

The next call he dared to answer was from his father. Jan Magnussen had words of comfort in Scandinavian sobriety. His job was now the most important thing. Kevin couldn't stop himself from laughing bitterly. This morning he nearly had given up his job. How the tables had turned. His mother was more empathetic, asked if she shouldn't fly to Italy and for one second Kevin was tempted to say yes. To let himself fall in his mother's soft arms, but he declined her offer. She told him how she never had trusted Louise. How helpful to let him marry anyway, he thought, but knew that no one could have stopped him. His mother meant no harm and he longed for her as if he were a child again. He longed for the warm, comforting body of his little brother and his happy chatter. Instead, he sat alone in Daniel's hotel room. He had been surprised how the Australian had literally taken him by the hand and taken care of everything. The Dane didn't have many friends and Daniel was proving to be a surprising but very real friend right now.  
Louise called three more times until he arrived in Florence in the early evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly translated:
> 
>  _Merde_ (fren.): Shit  
>  _fils de pute_ (fren.): Son of a bitch.  
>  _Toi? Je ne peux pas vous croire. Espèce de salaud!_ (fren.): You? I can't believe it! You bastard.
> 
> \-------------  
> Just a quick reminder: neither Ocon nor Louise are bad people in real life. This work is purely fiction and I am sorry that they ended up as the bad guys - but well here we are. 
> 
> \--------------  
> Aaargh end of the season. Don't know what I will do with myself for the next 95 days ._.
> 
> If you want to yell at me on tumblr:  
> [@beerin](http://beerin.tumblr.com)


	3. Tired

##### 08\. September 2020, Florence, Italy

Tuesday was cruel.   
Despair and profound anger alternated with a speed that worried even himself. Magnussen did not leave the flat in Florence, that Louise and he had rented after a long negotiation with Steiner about Covid-Bubbles and hygiene measures.   
In one of his fits of rage, the bathroom mirror broke under his clenched fist and he burst into tears again. Romain called him, by now reunited with his family, and in the background Magnussen heard the children laughing with delight. Bitter bile rose up inside him and he shouted incoherent insults into the phone before hanging up. He ignored the calls from his father and TJ.   
When Daniel knocked on the door in the afternoon - much to his amazement, he didn't answer. He didn't quite understand why the Australian seemed so concerned about him, but it was probably just Daniel's way. Or maybe Ricciardo was just triumphant that he hadn't lived up to his bad boy reputation and his tough shell had been broken, Magnussen thought bitterly. He was certainly of little use on the track like that. He had images in his head of driving the Haas car into the wall. Rolling over. For the first time in his life, he dreaded the coming race. Frightened to get into the bolide and cut corners with more than 200 km/h. Not that he was suicidal, but a small slip up seemed for the first time in his race career as a possibility he couldn't rule out. 

Several times he was on the verge of calling Louise, but he didn't give in. She would have to contact him. She would have to run after him. When she called, however, he switched off his mobile, unable to ignore the constant vibrating. Closing the curtains, he ignored the golden sparkling Florence at his feet. They had wanted to have a nice two days in the Italian city before Mugello, but now it was all broken and he felt an irrational hatred for Italy.   
A nation that always seemed loud and arrogant. Never seemed to settle down. A loud mouth and little behind it: Ferrari as a symptom of the screwed-up country.   
He missed Copenhagen. The ease, the friendliness, the ability to mind his own business. In Denmark, no trashy paper would follow him around to comment on his reddened eyes. Magnussen had resolved really, really not to check the magazines - but had broken in at a weak moment and Googled his name.

**A bad season for Magnussen - marriage and Haas contract on the line**   
**Magnussen's ex and her new lover? Did she cheat on him?**   
**Yesterday's press conference promises a Magnussencrash at Mugello - who does he hit this time?**   
**The marriage didn't last a year! Bad boy of Formula 1 leaves wife**

It had gone on for pages and he had once again wondered who could have such an interest in his private life, that it justified this flood of news coverage. Alternately, he or Louise was to blame. The scales were tipping in his favour. Separating him as an aggressive driver from him as a loving husband and most of the time pretty nice person seemed impossible for the press.   
The news that Louise's cheating had already gone public, shook him harder than his alleged part in the end if his marriage. Not only had she cheated on him, but she apparently had made no effort to hide it. Neither from him, nor from the rest of the world – not even from the vultures calling themselves journalists. It was a slap in the face. Did she really respect him so little?

He couldn't get the image of her naked body, crudely marked by Ocon, out of his head. Every time he closed his eyes to catch some sleep, it crowded in front of his eyelids and he was abruptly awake again. When Steiner knocked on his door in the evening, he was accordingly obnoxious. Unlike Daniel, however, he couldn't simply ignore his team principal and so he impatiently yanked open the door to bark at the Tyrolese.   
"Yes?"  
Steiner glared at him for a second before muttering something in German that Magnussen didn't understand. As so often, the attentive eyes pierced his angry front. There were reasons why Günther had put up with him for so long. He knew Magnussen's anger boiled up as quickly as his own. But he also knew that Magnussen was an absolute family man like himself. Knew that Magnussen often felt misunderstood. Not liked. Had difficulty opening up. Had never overcome his role as an outsider in the grid, even after six years. Steiner knew Magnussen was difficult. But he believed in him. Stood by him. Trusted him. And saw behind his strong façade.

And under the intense gaze of his team boss, Kevin let go. Opened the door and let him into the messy flat. Steiner's eyes flitted over the half-open travel bag. The contents scattered wildly around the flat. The shiny wedding ring lying forlornly on the large dining table. The cracked mirror. The sofa cushion torn in a fit of rage. He sighed and patted his driver's shoulder awkwardly. "Do you want to talk?"  
Suddenly tired, Magnussen sat down at the dining room table and reached for his wedding ring. Turned it slowly in his hands without saying a word. Steiner waited patiently.  
When he began to speak, his voice sounded unusually raspy.   
"I really loved her Günther, you know that. But what would you do?", an answer to the rhetorical question seemed unnecessary. "You know how hard the last few months have been. And now... I just feel so stupid." He sighed. Paused.   
"Günther, do you think I did the right thing?"   
He received no answer and began to rant. Justifying himself over and over again, reviewing the last few months, questioning his actions. Silently, Steiner listened to him, let him take his time. After what felt like an eternity, he quietly interrupted the Dane:   
"Kevin. What's done is done. I am sorry. But every week is a new week. Don't let it destroy your career. If you need us, we're here. Haas is your family..."   
"But you also need to fill the seats soon and too many good drivers are out of contract," Magnussen completed the unfinished sentence. He couldn't help the slight bitterness in his voice.   
A sigh was the answer and told him more than he wanted to know. "Kevin, you're family. But this season...", Steiner shook his head wearily. "Just concentrate on Sunday. Take the time to think about your marriage in peace. Don't get carried away with stupid things."   
Magnussen did not reply. After a few minutes of silence, the Tyrolese rose with another heavy sigh and patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. "We're all here for you. Just turn on your phone." The door slammed too loudly into the lock behind him.

Wednesday was better.   
He dared to turn on his mobile phone.   
Called his parents and Romain back and apologised. Announced to TJ he was taking some time off until Friday. Even wrote Daniel a short message.   
Ordered pizza and beer, discarding his actual diet and training. On Thursday, he left the flat for the first time, even though he decided to skip media duty. Instead walked the narrow streets full of people and felt alone. Twice he imagined seeing Louise. Hid hastily in doorways. Panic-stricken, heart racing.   
As by chance he stumbled across Daniel and Hülkenberg, the two inviting him to dinner. He declined. Again wondering why Hülkenberg was in Italy. Maybe he was in talks over a seat for next season. Maybe even with Steiner. Steiner had never made a secret of the fact that he thought the German was a brilliant driver. Got on well with him. Magnussen's stomach clenched. Vettel had a contract with Racing Point. Perez was thus free. The vacancies were dwindling and too many good drivers were left - and that was even without thinking of Schumacher, Ilott or Tsunoda. If he was Gene, he would probably replace himself. Himself and Grosjean.   
On the other hand, he knew he was actually better. Knew that with the right car he had what it took to be on the podium. He was tired constantly battling for a few points. When he started racing, had his first podium he actually thought one day he would have a chance to fight for the championship.   
But now, six years in, he was tired. Tired of having more of Hamilton's dominance, tired seeing Verstappen ready to take over. Tired of scraping behind the Williams. If Haas extended, he would still accept without hesitation. Steiner's family chatter had not just been empty words. They were a close team. A close team that had no success and money at the moment. Hadn't had any successes and big sponsors for a while now. And he had a real run of bad luck this season and not the backings to carry the team. Two arguments that didn't help in any negotiations.

Friday morning was hot and humid. Magnussen woke up drenched in sweat. Italy was sweating. He made coffee, went for a quick run through the still empty streets, showered and drove the short distance to Mugello. Something resonated in the background all morning that he couldn't put his finger on. Something that was somehow not right. But he couldn't put his finger on it.   
When he finally got into the bolide, he felt sick. He tried to pull himself together and get the best out of the Ferrari engine, but something wasn't right. The three practice runs on Friday and Saturday were disappointing. 17, 19 and a hard-won 15. In qualifying, finally, a devastating 20. He started on Sunday with the worst conditions. The week had drained him. Physically and mentally shattered.   
He was tired and overstimulated. It was hot in Mugello. The track was unfamiliar. And the race was a disaster. Many accidents, many restarts. The huge coalition on lap seven ended his race despite a good start. Of the twenty drivers, only twelve finished.   
Not being injured was a welcome surprise for Magnussen after the nightmares of the last few days. But a commitment for next season moved another step into the distance. Even if it hadn't been his fault - in the end, the only thing that mattered was whether he scored points or not. That Bottas was to blame for the misery was irrelevant. He had even got away without a penalty. What a shitty week.   
Magnussen remembered last Sunday night and his boxing session with the unknown girl. Only seven days had passed, but it seemed like years in between. He wondered if she would be in the gym again. His gut said yes. A few hours of anger release might be just the thing today. And besides: he had the feeling that they weren't done with each other yet.

His intuition had not betrayed him. When he entered the mobile gym after his much to early interview, she was already standing at the punching bag and trying kicks. Admiringly, he saw her taut strands of muscle standing out against the thin fabric of the leggings.   
The perfect curve of her ass. Her straight and lightly tanned back. Her tight ponytail inviting him to bury his fist in it. To pull her head back as he took her from behind. Despite the emotional shambles inside him, his libido seemed to be running at full pressure. He tried to concentrate. Not to think about how well her ass would feel in his hands. How he would embrace her full breasts from behind as he rammed his cock into her. How he would tease her sensitive nipples and make her gasp enchantingly. It was only the thought of today's race that saved him from an unpleasant encounter and so he was able to pat her shoulder in relative relaxation.   
She startled terribly and glared at him. "One round?"   
She mutely answered the minimalist question with a nod and got into position. After only a few minutes he realised he had been right. For the first time this week, he found some peace. Blocked her punches and kicks, after a while began to carefully deliver his own. Slowly, to give her enough time to block. When she noticed his hesitation, she seemed to get angry, because the kicks and punches gained intensity and became more powerful, faster, more dangerous. Soon he was sweating and they danced across the sports mats, entangled in their duel.

Breathing heavily, they both reached for their water bottles. When the first thirst was quenched, Magnussen noticed her shameless gaze on his muscular arms and couldn't help flexing his muscles. Caught off guard, a hint of a blush settled over her cheeks and she took a hearty swig from her water bottle, glancing at her feet with a little too much interest.   
"Are you telling me your name now? Or are you still playing hard to get?", Magnussen couldn't help his tone sounding a little annoyed. He was getting tired of this game. And yet he was so tired anyway.  
She remained silent for a moment, reaching for her mobile. When she answered her voice sounded restrained and chilled.   
"Remember one thing, Magnussen. I never play games. But I am not trying to befriend you, I have friends. The only thing I need is a sparring partner once in a while – and you don't seem to be too reluctant to fill this role. So no, there is no need for me telling you my name. We do not have to engage in any nonsense chit-chat and you do not have to pretend to care about me or my thirty cats, waiting eagerly for me to come home. I do not care for you and your constant need to insult or threaten every person around you. I just wanna release some stress. So either you take the offer or you spend your time somewhere else. Anyway, I have to go and shower, I'll be picked up in a minute."  
Once again her words didn't explain anything at all, but before he could answer her, she had already left the training room, hips swaying seductively. Thoughtfully he watched her go, not noticing until she was long gone, that someone was standing behind him. Like last week, he was expecting Hülkenberg and could hardly hide his surprise when he looked into Charles' mildly smiling face.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be celebrating your points?"   
"Probably. But I'm waiting for someone. And you?" The Monegasque's eyes continued to smile openly at him, mouth hidden behind a perfectly fitting mask and Magnussen was getting angry. Didn't Leclerc have anything better to do? After all, he hadn't wrecked today despite the lousy car, had even brought in points, was young, successful, well-liked and good-looking. Why, of all things, should he hang around the empty gym waiting for someone?   
The penny dropped embarrassingly slow.   
He was waiting for her. "Have you lost Hülkenberg? Or does he trust you with his girlfriend?"   
The pearly laugh of his counterpart made him crack his knuckles tensely. It was not a good day to laugh at him. It was not a good day for him in general. Or for anyone around him for that matter.   
"Hülkenberg's girlfriend, you're amusing!" Suspiciously, Magnussen watched him.   
"Is she yours?" Reprovingly, but with the same mild smile that made him so aggressive, the younger man shook his head. "You can't own people, Kevin."   
"Damn, that's not what I meant either. I asked if you were with her," he snapped back angrily.  
However, as Leclerc, still smiling, was about to reply, she came sauntering out of the locker room. Magnussen couldn't help but admire what an aesthetically pleasing couple they made as she kissed the Monegasque on the cheek in greeting, breaking at least three Covid-bubbles in the act.   
Charles was so beautiful that it sometimes physically hurt him. The world was unfair.

"What were you guys talking about?" His menacing look however did not stop Charles.   
"Ah, _Chérie_ , he wanted to know if we were lovers," the French accent was heavy on his tongue as he possessively wrapped his arm around her waist and almost lasciviously moistened his lips, his mask dangly neglected in his hands.  
Immediately her gaze turned hostile and she grabbed her own mask tightly, before she hid her face behind the red fabric. "Magnussen, this is none of your business," she snapped and dragged an visible amused Leclerc towards the exit. He raised his hand in farewell but made no move to stop her.   
The Dane had once again been left standing without a goodbye. Through the glass, Magnussen saw her gesticulating furiously at the Monegasque until he pressed a kiss to her forehead with a laugh. She seemed appeased and the two disappeared into the dark night, embraced. Nobody seemed to care about these freaking bubbles. 

Magnussen reached for his mobile phone and hesitantly dialled the last number that had called him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly translated:
> 
> _Chérie_ (fren.): Honey (petname)  
> \--------------  
> So Sorry, I haven't had a chance to update the last few weeks, because my mental health wasn't at its best. Since we are in our third (or is it already the fourth) lockdown and I'm on short-term leave in work (Uni is online since March and will stay online until September probably), I am a bit struggeling (like most people atm...)  
> Buuut, I managed to write a huge chunk :)  
> I am so happy to have found this site in late autumn, since it really calms me.
> 
> If you want to yell at me on tumblr:  
> [@beerin](http://beerin.tumblr.com)


End file.
